


Asleep

by Somedrunkpirate



Series: Regrette Rien [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Limbo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:20:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: Arthur wakes up, Eames doesn't.





	1. Chapter One

Waking up from has a dream has a strict routine for Arthur.

He wakes but keeps his eyes closed to give himself 3 seconds to recover from whatever death he woke up from. After, he sits up straight and composed. He pulls out the IV, checks for blood before he pulls down his rolled up sleeve, and closes the buttons.  He stands up.

Arthur does this all like clockwork. It takes 15 seconds precisely.

It takes years of repetition to perfect a waking up routine. Arthur is proud of his. He has gone through years of professional dreamshare work and has never once deviated from it.

Until today.

\--

Arthur shoots up from his chair, chest heaving. With one swift movement, he is at Eames’ side and tips the chair to the side quickly to kick him out of the dream.

“Eames,” Arthur shouts, when he gets no reaction. He changes position and cups his hand around Eames’ face, slapping it with the other. Eames’ eyelids tremble, but he doesn’t wake. His skin feels clammy, probably from the sweat of Arthur’s hands.

Arthur is trembling. He goes down to his knees next Eames’ unresponsive body and gasps in a ragged breath.

“Eames, Eames. Please, give me something. You’re dreaming. Come back,” Arthur pleads, his voice straining at the end.

The job went to hell. Arthur had been the dreamer and was killed by a rogue projection in level two, while Eames had been in level 3. The mark isn’t militarized but an unhealthy dose of paranoia and a fascination with prehistoric animals made level two an unmediated disaster. Eames was supposed to wake up with him or wake up when the dream ended.

But he didn’t. He is still asleep and Arthur fucked up badly.

_I’m gonna lose him._

Arthur gets sick to his stomach and clenches his jaw to prevent himself from screaming in frustration.

A hand on his shoulder shakes him out of his panic, and he whirls around while pushing himself upright, a gun suddenly in his hands and pointed at their chemist, Megan.

Megan takes a step back at Arthur’s reaction and now has her own gun aimed back.

“Arthur, calm the fuck down,” she says, making no move to put the gun away.

“What happened to him, what did you do to him?” Arthur asks, deadly calm.

Did she add something in the mix? Was this her doing? Had Arthur missed something in her background check? His mind frantically goes through every interaction with her during the job.

“Arthur, I didn’t do anything. You were killed before the timer was up. If you two had kept to the plan, you would’ve been a level above Eames, he would be in level three. You died before the kick, Eames didn’t wake up and the dream collapsed,” Megan states calmly.

Arthur is prevented from reacting by a cough to the left of him. In unison, Megan and Arthur move their aim to the direction of sound, which turns out to be the mark waking up. Cursing, Arthur lowers his gun and grabs a needle with sedative from the desk next to him.

He dashes across the room before punching the needle in the mark’s thigh, whose eyes widen in terror before he succumbs to the drugs. Arthur’s knees give out and he stays on the ground next to the mark’s chair, breathing heavily.

“Arthur? Are you with me?” Megan asks, her gun still aimed at him but her face showing sympathy and concern. Arthur nods once, and she puts the gun away immediately.

“Good, because I need you here,” she says briskly before turning towards Eames and adding. “ _He_ needs you here.”

Arthur stands up and nods again. Point taken. He walks over to Megan and stands next to Eames. Megan steps away a bit and watches as Arthur checks Eames’ pulse again, slightly elevated, and peers into Eames’ eyes with his phone’s light, no dilation.

“So?” Megan asks after a minute of silence. “Limbo?”

Arthur stands back, trying to let his logic side take over. Detached is something he cannot be, not anymore, but he needs to take a step back to be able to think.

“I don’t know for sure, but there is a high possibility.” He sighs. Eames had been below him, they used sedatives, there was not much choice if for a three level dream. But Arthur was supposed to make sure that the dream was stable, so that Eames could safely ride the kick up and out. But he didn’t, the chaos of the second level was above what he could do and the dream collapsed with him. Eames not being able to hold all three levels on his own.  

He pales; this is not the first time he’s put Eames in danger of limbo without meaning to. And maybe, this time their luck has run out.

He takes a deep breath and steps away both literally and figuratively from Eames.

“If there is no change after the timer runs out - ” Arthur is interrupted by the tell-tale click and push of the PASIV.

Eames doesn’t wake up.

“It's Limbo,” Arthur says and presses his hands to his face. “Okay.”

\--

Megan closes the door behind her, leaving Arthur in a deafening silence. Arthur is grateful that she offered to handle the mark and contact the client, leaving him free to focus on Eames.

The job failed, but Arthur has had enough time to find information that will give their client another lead at least. It wouldn’t be enough for the full check, but their expenses will be covered.

Arthur shakes himself and sits down on the chair next to Eames. He wraps his hand around his wrist, counting off the beats of a steady pulse. He times his breathing to it.

Arthur needs to be calm. He needs to work out what to do and how he needs to do it. Slowly, a mental checklist forms in his still-sluggish mind. Jumping into limbo right after Eames is not a good idea; first he will try to reach him from here, from reality. If he is lucky-  if _they_ are lucky - maybe something will reach Eames and he can wake himself up, no harm done.

Arthur slides his phone out of his jacket pocket and searches for a certain song and puts it on loop. He puts one of the earphones into Eames’ ear, the soft strings breaking the silence in the warehouse. Arthur wraps his hands around Eames right hand, squeezing tightly, and leans forward.

“Eames, please. It’s not real, it’s a dream. I can’t help you, you have get yourself out, okay? Eames, listen to me. Lazy Sunday. Lazy Sunday. Lazy Sunday, please.”

Accompanied by Pilaf’s voice, Arthur repeats the words, hoping it will trigger something, anything.

Eames proposed it a few years into their relationship. They loved to have time off with each other, just laze around a bit in their apartment or in a hotel. Watch a movie and paint. Maybe take a walk if the weather allowed it. But for some reason, those lazy days never _ever_ happen on a Sunday. They have lazy Thursdays and Saturdays but never Sundays.

Sundays are the days of business or travel, and later, for celebrations. Eames picked up on it first, and to keep the tradition he made sure to whisk Arthur away for an impromptu trip if a Lazy Sunday seemed to creep up on them.

“It is just not something for us, pet, it’s impossible, we just can’t do it,” Eames once said, smiling over dinner. Arthur chuckled and agreed.

“You know,” Eames said, eyes bright and happy. “We should use it as our secret codeword, you know, when something is off? Because, when a Lazy Sunday happens, love, we know the world has turned to hell.”

Arthur laughed with Eames, and later, he thought back to that conversation fondly and smile to himself.

Until Eames used it once, when he got kidnapped. Arthur took it seriously after that.

This time, however, the code word doesn’t save the day, and Arthur has to give up. He puts his hands in his hair, digging through his brain for other options, but he comes up with nothing.

So Arthur does what he does when he has no other options left. He calls Cobb.

Cobb picks up the phone on the second ring. The sounds of a busy life with kids float through the static phone line, jarring with the oppressive silence Megan and Arthur hold themselves in.

Arthur can hear Philipa in the background talking animatedly to James and the sound of something hitting a pan’s edge tells him that Cobb is making breakfast. Slightly surprised, Arthur looks at his watch. He didn’t think about time zones.

“Arthur?” Cobb asks brightly, when the silence stretches. “Why did you call us this lovely morning? Are you visiting soon? The kids miss you.” Cobb turns the phone towards James and Philipa, who agree enthusiastically. Arthur breathes calmly through the greetings - the kids are too busy talking to notice his silence - waiting until he can speak to Cobb again.

“Arthur?” Cobb asks again, this time sounding a bit worried. Arthur clears his throat.

“Cobb, you know you owe me, right?” he asks, anticipating denial but prepared to push through. Cobb swallows audibly, and Arthur can hear him move to another room away from the kids.

“Arthur, what do you want from me?” Cobb says, Arthur hears the reluctance in his voice and has to tame down his frustration.

“Eames is in Limbo,” he answers. Cobb makes a choked sound, but Arthur knows this is not for Eames or even for Arthur. This Cobb’s own grief.

Slowly, the implications of what Arthur has said seems to dawn on Cobb and he speaks.

“Arthur, you can’t be asking me -  he cuts himself off and starts again. “You can’t ask me this, I quit dreamsharing – _the kids_. You can’t ask me to go into limbo after him, Arthur. That would be-”

Cobb cuts himself off again but Arthur hears it anyway. _Selfish_.

Arthur’s blood boils and he locks his jaw to prevent profanities from coming out.

He isn’t asking Cobb to drop everything and save Eames from Limbo. Though that would’ve been Eames’ best chance to get out. The family has gone through enough, and Arthur can’t do that to them.

Still, Cobb’s outright refusal angers Arthur. Arthur has sacrificed so much, and he owes Arthur, for anything he asks. But Cobb is far from a perfect man, and Arthur has to make do with what he has.

“Arthur?” Cobb asks uncertainly.

“No.” Arthur says, not elaborating further. He hears a deep sigh of relief that almost brings back his rage. He directs his thoughts to James and Philippa, the lovely children for whom all this has been done.

On the darkest of days, when the friendship between Cobb and Arthur turns into mutual loathing and Arthur’s memories of Mall became ruined by the personification of Cobb’s eternal guilt. There had been only one thing that kept Arthur going, thoughts of the children.

“No. I’m asking you for every piece of information you have on limbo - even the things you think will be unnecessary. I need every single bit of data to save him,” Arthur continues.

Cobb doesn’t react; Arthur can almost feel him start to protest. Sharing everything will include Mal and Cobb’s time in Limbo, precious memories Cobb has never once told Arthur about.

Arthur knows the basics through Ariadne. After the inception job, the two of them had a strong cup of coffee and lamented together on the insanity that was Dominic Cobb, but that information wasn’t going to be enough to save Eames right now.

Arthur knows exactly when Cobb realises he can’t refuse; Cobb sighs heavily. He is probably squinting.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I can do that. When do you need it?”

Arthur almost bites a hole through his cheek.

“Cobb, I am losing him more with every second. I needed it yesterday. You need to prepare it _now_ . Take the kids to school and don’t stop writing it all down until I have a full report. You owe me this. You _owe_ me this.” Arthur spits out, his whole body trembling.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Cobb says, and Arthur can finally breathe again.

“Goodbye, Cobb. Tell the kids ‘Hi’ from me.” Arthur hangs up.

\--

Arthur finishes reading the documents late at night. His coffee mug is in pieces on the ground, thrown against the wall in a fit of anger and loathing. He almost deletes Cobb’s number from his phone, but the children’s happy giggles float into his mind so he doesn’t.

Despite his anger, he knows he has no option. He has to go after Eames.

He doses the PASIV and sets the timer on 15 hours. He hopes, _prays_ , that that will be enough. He lies down next to Eames, grasps his limp hands in one of his and pulls it on his chest, to his heart. He kisses Eames’ ring finger just before he falls asleep.

\--

Orientation is top priority right now.

Arthur turns, searching until his gaze falls onto one of the greatest trees he has ever seen in his lifetime. It feels like the thick forest centres around this one tree, as all the trees and even the smallest of flowers seem to reach for it, while at the same time keeping a respectful distance back. Under the tree’s roots flows a small but lively creek, with one section of the roots forming a natural bridge over the trickling water and smooth river stones.

Arthur walks to the scene in reverence. The closer he gets, the more magnificent the tree seems to be. The trunk is covered by green vegetation, the rootbridge adorned with ferns and flowers.

He walks carefully across the bridge, arms stretched for balance. When Arthur looks up from the base of the tree, he is met by hundreds upon hundreds of branches, reaching an impossible and unending height. The canopy is so thick that no sky can be seen. Despite this, the forest ground is bathed in light, as if the sun does not bend to the will of shadow and darkness.

The sunlight shines down like all of the leaves Arthur sees do not exist at all.  

Upon looking up, Arthur’s plan for orientation falls through. Even with all the persistence in the world, climbing this tree seems to be impossible. As he thinks this, the tree seems to recede a bit. It stays a tall tree, but the unending branches have maybe halved in multitude. Arthur shakes his head; the rules of limbo are something he has to get used to.

It seems like the forest wants him to walk. So he shrugs and lays his hand on the base of the tree in farewell. A golden handprint glows when he pulls his hand away, marking the tree.

Arthur smiles and sets forth his journey, leaving a golden trail along his way. 

\--

Arthur doesn’t know how many times he has walked around a tree and found his own handprint glaring back at him, but he is very done with it. He has walked for hours; now, the sun has dimmed slightly and his feet hurt. He sits down on the nearest stone and takes a deep breath.

It’s as if he’s been walking through a beautiful painting this whole time, gorgeous and peaceful, but with no real end in sight.

The wonder and enjoyment of the scenery has faded and now he is mostly frustrated. He wants to find Eames, and for that, he needs progress. But first: a well-deserved break.

He stands up and shuffles to a cherry blossom tree near him. It has one big low hanging branch that looks like a very attractive resting spot to Arthur. He pulls himself up and, on all fours, slowly makes his way to the trunk. He sits with his back to the trunk, legs hanging down alongside the thick branch. He folds his jacked and places it behind his head as a makeshift pillow. Finally, Arthur yawns, and within seconds he’s fallen sound asleep.

 

A bark shakes Arthur out of his slumber some time later. He shoots up from the sound, almost falling of the tree brance in the process. Arthur balances himself on the branch awkwardly, his surroundings are unfamiliar. Slowly, his situation comes back to him, and he lets out a sigh.

Another bark surprises him, and he looks down, following the sound. A dog is standing below Arthur’s branch, wagging its tail happily. It barks again. Arthur lowers himself to the ground cautiously, not sure if this seemingly non-threatening projection means him any harm.

When his feet touch solid ground, he is pushed backwards by an enthusiastic ball of fur. The dog, a German Shepard, is standing on his chest and licking his face and Arthur can’t help but laugh.

He pushes his hand through the tuft of fur between its ears, pushing it away a bit while petting it at the same time. Arthur sits up straight and the dog bounces around him, barking all the while. Arthur smiles, he knows this dog, or at least knows of her.

Gina, Eames’ childhood companion, is looking at him impatiently. Intelligent eyes, one blue and one green, are watching him and Arthur feels like she is expecting something from him. He searches his trouser pockets as he stands up, finding a treat inside it.  

Gina sits before his feet, obedient and attentive. Arthur chuckles and gives her the treat, murmuring, “good girl,” as he does so.

Treat eaten, Gina stands back up on all fours. She barks at Arthur.

“Where is Eames?” Arthur asks, feeling a bit ridiculous to seriously ask a dog a question.

But, he reminds himself, this isn’t just a dog: this is a visual representation of a part of Eames’ subconscious, and could actually lead Arthur to him. This is progress.

Gina barks in response and takes off, right back the way Arthur came, skirting past glowing handprints and familiar trees.

“But!“ Arthur tries but gives in and runs after her.

\--

Gina leads him to the great tree again. The journey takes far shorter than Arthur remembers it to have taken the first time, and he is slightly annoyed when he finds the dog sitting right in the middle of the rootbridge, watching him cheerfully, with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. When Arthur reaches her, she wags her tail against the ground. Arthur raises an eyebrow at her and she whines, wagging again, as if she is motioning toward the ground, trying to communicate something.

Arthur prays for his sanity but obliges; he sits down next to Gina. She barks contentedly, and Arthur follows her gaze, looking out at the horizon where the creek grows bigger as it gets farther away.

Arthur frowns; why didn’t he follow the water the first time? He makes to stand up, but a growl makes him stop, and he sits back down with a huff. “What do you want from me?”

Gina whines and flicks her ears. Arthur sighs again, clueless, and tries to sit more comfortably, who knows how long this is going to take?

It is not a bad place to sit, he supposes. The light is softer than it was when he first started here, and it highlights the clear water. Arthur sees fish swimming through it easily, the creek suddenly filled with life. The water trickles between the rocks, splashing against them.

The sounds of the water fill Arthur’s ears and he closes his eyes, slipping away easily, focused on the music surrounding him. After a timeless moment, the water gradually fades away, replaced by a familiar melody. The first whispers of lyrics come to Arthur – _non, rien de rien, non_ \-  and he shivers and opens his eyes.

His surroundings have changed. The tree is gone. So is Gina.

He is out of the maze. 

\--

The first thing he notices is glass on the ground. Jagged pieces of glass, which he is sitting on.

He jumps up, his shoes breaking the shards into smaller pieces. Glass should not break this easily, Arthur thinks, and something about it makes him shiver. He looks up and the sight greeting him doesn’t make him feel any better. He is in an open field just outside the forest; he can see the treeline still. But the field isn’t empty.

A destroyed building fills the space. Some of the ruins still remain, but most of it is lying in debris on the ground, like someone trashed the place with grenades. A big majority of it seems to be glass.

Arthur tries to place the ruins, and when he walks closer he suddenly recognises what it had been: a cathedral, a glass cathedral, now destroyed.  Within the ruins he finds paintings, heaps of them. Some burned and others cut apart. He finds one of Gina, it has a question mark in the corner, written with a pencil.

Arthur puts the painting back, feeling more and more sick and uneasy. When he looks up, a sleek and modern tower rises from the ruins. It doesn’t grow before Arthur, like the tree did. No, the tower almost seems to shiver into space, revealing itself to Arthur as if it’s been there all this time. Like the emptiness it is now occupying was only an illusion and this is how it is supposed to be.

The tower is dark, made of thick black glass. Arthur walks closer cautiously, but he knows this is where he should go. The structure is hollow, and when he reaches it, he can hear Edith Pilaf’s voice echoing from within the walls.

Arthur lays his hand on the cold surface and he leaves behind another golden handprint. The building groans and steps wrap themselves around the outer walls, made from the same dark material as the tower itself.

Arthur takes a deep breath and starts his climb, the steps sliding back as he walks to the next. The higher he climbs, the more the ground shakes, shifts, and changes.

Halfway up, Arthur glances back down. The trees below have morphed into buildings and skyscrapers. The river is hidden between brick and stone. Arthur looks away and marches forward.


	2. Chapter Two

 

Arthur finds Eames on the rooftop of the tower. The rooftop, however, does not, in anyway, look like a roof. It’s a square, overlooking clear skies. It has a small canal running through it with a richly adorned half circular bridge spanning over the water. A small Venetian canoe floats along the canal before falling off the edge of the building, pushed by the stream. It appears again on the other side, repeating the process.

Eames is sitting on the edge of the square, his feet dangling over the edge. He is breathing out smoke, but there is no cigarette in sight.

“Eames,” Arthur says tentatively.

Eames doesn’t react to his presence until Arthur sits next to him. When Arthur looks down, he can see the forest of buildings down far below, only obscured by a few soft green clouds. Again, it feels like he stepped into a painting, specifically, one of Eames’ paintings.

It is only logical; give an artist the creative freedom limbo provides and they would never want to leave.

Arthur’s stomach goes tight. _What if Eames doesn’t want to leave?_

“Pretty, innit?” Eames asks, still not looking at him. Arthur wants to move closer, touch him after all this time, but he doesn’t want to make a bad situation worse.

“Yes,” he says, looking back to the view before him. It is beautiful and dreamlike and nothing has scared him this much. “But you’ve had enough time here, Eames. It’s time to go home. To get back to reality.”

Finally, Eames turns and looks at him, a small but genuine smile on his face.

“Oh,” he says, and keeps staring at Arthur, his eyes taking in his face. The icy blue of them makes Arthur’s heart skip; not only did he miss them so immensely, he sees the differences in them, too. Eames is older. His appearance may not give away the time that must have passed, but Arthur can see it in his eyes.

His heart breaks. How much time did they lose? Can they be like they were after this?

Do they still fit together so perfectly, as they did before?

They have shared many types of relationships over the years, and Arthur can’t imagine being the same person, had he not met Eames.

Eames is still looking at him. His hand slowly reaches out to Arthur’s face, but he flinches away before they touch. Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but Eames is speaking softly and Arthur stills to hear him.

“You’re real, you are real,” Eames states. He has his hands on his lap and his body is still turned to Arthur, but he is leaning away slightly, smiling sadly. Arthur reads longing and acceptance in his face, and Arthur is so confused. He reaches out, cups Eames’ face with one hand, but when Eames tenses and his smile turns stained, Arthur retreats, his heart pounding.

“I’m real, yes,” Arthur says, and then the implications of what Eames said hits him.“Eames? You already know this isn’t real; do you know you are in limbo?” he asks quickly.

When Eames nods, Arthur’s world falls apart. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“Then why - I was – am -  so scared- why didn’t you wake up?” Arthur says, or tries to, but the tremble in his voice makes it hard to.

Eames knew and chose to stay, chose to be away from him, from _them_ . Arthur tries to focus on his breathing. His mind is reaching out for an explanation, for signs. Was Eames this desperate to have a break from Arthur that he used _limbo_ to get away? Arthur doesn’t understand; this isn’t like the Eames he has known for so long.

Or maybe is it, and he has been blind to Eames’ real feelings about their relationship for all this time. Maybe he regrets all of it. Arthur feels sick.

Eames is watching Arthur’s visible panic with confused hesitation on his face. He pats Arthur’s shoulder awkwardly.

“Didn’t know you cared that much, love,” he confesses, “I’m surprised you went after me at all. To be totally honest, I didn’t expect you to risk limbo for silly old me.”

He smiles at Arthur, who turns away and stares unseeingly into the depths below him. This whole conversation is a train wreck and Arthur has never been so entirely out of his depth in his whole life.

“How the fuck can you think that,” he eventually manages.

Eames leans back in reaction to the animosity Arthur is giving off.

“After all we went through,” Arthur continues, “Eames, how can you think that I wouldn’t care whether or not you stayed in limbo? I would _lose_ you.” He spits the word, suddenly angry. “Jesus fucking Christ. Eames, not being okay with losing you -losing _us-_ is kind of the basis of what we are.”

“Darling,” Eames starts slowly, “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m afraid you have me at a loss here. We’re coworkers, and I would trust you with my life, of course, but you don’t even like me that much…” Eames shrugs. Arthur is numb.

“Eames, we have been married for over 4 years,” Arthur says.

Eames doesn’t remember them. Eames doesn’t remember, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do any more.

Eames’ face crumples, his shoulders drop and he turns into himself, moving his eyes to the now dark night’s sky. “Oh, darling,” he sighs. “I really thought you were real for a second.”

Nauseated and hopeless, Arthur watches as Eames paints the sky in dark blue and soft purple, scattering a few extra stars in for flare. He can see Eames smile softly.

“I’m getting better at this I suppose, your projections,” Eames says wishfully. “If I can fool myself for all this time, it won’t be long before I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

\--

Time slips. Arthur is vaguely aware that Eames is getting up to leave for -

He doesn’t know what for. But he is too tired to move or to care. Keeping hopelessness at bay is suddenly an exercise that needs more energy than he has. He stares out into the deep dark blue sky. Eames doesn’t believe him and he doesn’t want to leave. He almost seems to be at home here.

Suddenly, Arthur recalls reading through Cobb’s reports. Arthur had been so angry when he read what Cobb did to Mal. Arthur can’t do that too Eames, not ever. But Cobb, with his manic genius, hadn’t found another solution. So what can Arthur do?

Arthur notices that he is trembling and the air around him feels cold and unwelcome. Eames is gone. The clouds below him have turned black and the stars have disappeared. Arthur swiftly stands up, and walks towards the black box at the end of the roof. But when he reaches it, the door is gone.

Arthur sighs and he tugs his jacket around him to protect himself from the icy winds. He jumps when the jacket turns into a thick black furry coat. Controlling things in limbo is too easy, Arthur reminds himself. But the winds don’t reach him anymore, so he keeps the coat on.

Arthur walks back to the bridge. He sits down on the ground, and leans against the wall, which is still slightly warm from the sunny day. He rearranges the coat, tries to drape it over himself as a blanket.

When he falls asleep, he doesn’t notice the coat growing, covering him completely.

\--

The next day, Arthur wakes slowly. The sun is shining right into his eyes. He vanishes his blanket automatically and dreams up a small dinner table. One of those white ones that litter the Parisian terraces of expensive bakeries.

It is only when he sits down and _Le Monde_ appears in his hand that Arthur realises what he is doing. Arthur curses, and the objects disappear in a flash, leaving him to promptly fall on his arse, to the ground.

A squeaky door opens behind him, and Eames walks outside. Arthur isn’t looking at him, though; he is looking at his projection walking next to Eames with a plate of pancakes, the Dutch ones. Eames’s always liked those.

Eames closes the door after him and turns around. When he finally sees Arthur, still on the ground, the projection that is obediently waiting next to him flickers and vanishes. Eames catches the pancakes skilfully but doesn’t seem to be bothered by the sudden disappearance.

Arthur, however, is breathing rapidly. He had known this; he had reached his conclusions about this yesterday. But to see it is something else.

Eames walks towards him, grinning broadly.

“I _am_ getting better!” he says cheerfully, putting the plate of pancakes on a table that appears just when Eames lets the plate go. Eames leans backwards, to be caught in a chair and throws something at Arthur. _Le Monde_ falls into Arthur’s lap.

“Why are you on the ground, darling?” He asks. Arthur blinks and there is a chair before him. His chair. The one from their _real_ apartment. Arthur’s chest widens a tiny bit, and cautiously, a plan starts to form in his head.

Eames frowns at him, so Arthur obliges. He sits down and is met by Eames’ smile. Arthur can’t help but smile back a little.

“So, darling, what would you like for breakfast?” he says as he makes a broad gesture with his hands. The table fills with various breakfast options, from waffles to a full English, and Arthur can even spy some cake in the heaps of food.  

“I can make anything in the world for you, love,” Eames says with a leer.

Arthur shivers. He had missed this so much, missed them. But it is not real, he tells himself sternly.  So he shakes his head.

“Pancakes,” he answers finally.

Eames nods and waves with his hand, the table is now empty save for two plates and the stack of pancakes. He grins at Arthur. “Good choice, pet, they are my favourite,” he says, pushing a plate towards Arthur.

Arthur nods; he knows that.

They eat in companionable silence. Eames doesn’t seem to be very talkative, which is a contrast to Arthur’s real life experiences. Normally, breakfast is filled with renditions of dreams he had – Eames, miraculously, can still dream naturally and very vividly, too; Arthur tries to not envy him for it- or whimsical anecdotes that fill the silence.

But talking about dreams in limbo may be a bit redundant. And, Arthur reminds himself, Eames thinks he is a projection.

Arthur, for his part, is too busy thinking of solutions. That damn chair gave him the kick-start out of hopelessness he needed, and suddenly, he can think. Eames may not believe their relationship is real, but he does know that this is a dream.

Arthur weighs the options in his head but dismisses killing Eames to wake him up. He would get out of limbo, yes, but the idea that their relationship doesn’t exist may remain. He can’t risk that.

“You remind me of him,” Eames says suddenly, shaking Arthur out of his thoughts.

“Of who?” Arthur asks, as he looks toward Eames, who is cutting aggressively into his fifth - no, seventh, pancake.

“The first projection. He also stayed for more than a day, and I thought he was real at first, too…” Eames says, his voice turns soft and fond, and Arthur is trying and failing not to be jealous of his own projection.

“How did you know he was not?” Arthur asks, his mind focused and sharp. This could be important information. Arthur has to know what triggered the belief that their relationship is  not real. It could be the key to solving this mess.

Eames whistles _Non Regrette Rien_. Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“You whistled it all the time,” Eames says in response to the silent question.

Arthur nods to himself. At least some of his frantic attempts to get Eames to wake up came through a little bit. “Was that all?” Arthur ask, before taking a bite of his pancake.

Eames shakes his head. “That, and just the overall dreamlike quality of it, you know?” Eames tilts his head, waving vaguely with his knife.

“I don’t,” Arthur says, pushing his plate away from him, suddenly not hungry anymore.

“We lived together; you made breakfast: pancakes. I painted. Etcetera.  A happily ever after that I don’t deserve, darling. So conclusion, it couldn’t have been real.” He takes a breath before continuing, while vanishing the plates with a flick of his hand.

“It was like someone picked my brain for everything I’ve wanted for years. It was too perfect. That’s how you see through a forge, pet; reality always has its faults.”

Eames chuckles. “We had a bloody Lazy Sunday together, love. That’s not us. That’s not something we ever could do.”

Arthur is staring numbly at his hands flat on the table. Eames takes a sip from his glass of water and smiles sourly.

“It’s impossible.”

**_\--_ **

After breakfast, Eames vanishes the table and it contents, leaving only Arthur’s chair behind.

Arthur marvels at the ease in which Eames manoeuvres and shapes this dream world. The practicalities seem to be without conscious thought, almost automatic, without Eames’ customary dramatic flare. The exception is the meticulous painting he does, not on canvas, but with their surroundings.

Arthur doesn’t know if Eames consciously designed the forest and the tower. The sky however, is clearly consciously designed. Eames sits back on his spot at the edge, moving the sun around so the morning light sparkles gold and orange. He paints the sky in light blues and hints of pink, the clouds are added later.  Great, white formations wrap around the edges of the horizon and surround the tower.

The forest below has disappeared and Arthur feels like they are floating in air.

Arthur watches Eames from his chair and smiles back when Eames turns around with a cheeky but proud grin. He watches Eames put in the last touches and aches to be next to him, to sink into his arms and watch the clouds together.

But he can’t.

Watching and wanting like this, from a distance, reminds him of his life before their relationship. When his standoffish attitude and snapped responses were his only defence against the flirty and gorgeous force of nature that Eames embodied whenever they worked together. Arthur had wanted him, had wanted to be more than  another “darling”, another  quick shag.

But Eames didn’t see him then, like he doesn’t see him now. Eames is waving at him to join him on the edge, but Arthur shakes his head. Personal space is the first way to defy temptation.

He cannot be with Eames; he needs to avoid being too close to him.

He cannot be with Eames.

Arthur turns his gaze away to the sky with a rapidly beating heart. There is something wrong about this, but it’s difficult to remember what. The pain of not being able to have what he wants, who he loves, is choking him, and he cannot think straight. He touches his ring finger in a nervous habit that he’s developed in the past few years and jumps slightly when his fingers find nothing. He looks down and at once knows what is missing, what is wrong. His wedding ring is gone.

Arthur takes a jagged breath in, ignoring Eames, who turns around and looks at him in confusion. Arthur tries to calm down and reason with himself.

He is not that pining boy anymore, Eames loves him as much as he loves Eames. They are married. Eames is his husband.

The ring materializes around Arthur’s ring finger, and he sags back in his chair in relief.

Arthur pushes his hand through his hair before dragging his palm across his face, wiping away the sweat and maybe a tear. He twists his ring around and huffs. This is getting ridiculous. He needs to get them out, before he loses track of what’s real, too.  The answer isn’t here, he knows.

“Eames,” Arthur calls out as he stands up, “let’s go downstairs.”

\--

They spend their descent in tense silence. Eames is walking a few steps behind him. Arthur strains to listen for his footsteps and suppresses the need to turn around and make sure he is still following him. After a while Arthur gets sick of it and stops walking. They only need to climb down a short distance, and Eames is avoiding Arthur’s gaze, staring at the ruins below them.

“What is this place to you?” Arthur asks impatiently. The destroyed cathedral has to mean something to Eames, and Arthur itches for more information. He doesn’t like the ruins himself, but something pushes him towards them. They have to provide an answer, a way back home.

Eames resumes walking down, and Arthur huffs at him for avoiding the question, but after a minute, Eames says,. “The cathedral was the first thing that was here after I got out of the impossible dream.” He’s still not looking at Arthur.

“You saw the paintings?” Eames asks. Arthur hums in confirmation, as Eames continues, “Well, most of those are memories of real things.”

Arthur nods to himself. He suspected that.

“The problem is,” Eames says, clenching his fists and voice strained, “I’m a forger. I paint fake paintings, and I have invented or recreated whole persons, and there were paintings of us everywhere, and those have to be fake, so I couldn't trust -“

Eames stills as he stands on the last step. Arthur walks to the ground, but Eames stays frozen, looking with wide eyes to the broken glass and destroyed paintings surrounding them.

“Bloody hell,” he chokes out. “I- I don’t remember destroying it this much.”

He keeps staring in shock, and Arthur can’t control himself anymore. He pulls Eames off the step and into his arms. Eames sags into him instantly, and Arthur sighs.

“I promise you, Eames, I will find the most real and most important painting – memory - I ever had the good fortune of making with you. We will go home and you will remember, yeah? You’ll remember, “ Arthur says, swears.

Eames doesn’t react but he also doesn’t dismiss it.

He just stays. 

**_\--_ **

It takes him the rest of the day, but Arthur finds it.

It is a painting of their wedding day. They are beaming at each other, hands wrapped tight between them. Their wedding bands gleam in the sparkling sunlight, and Arthur can’t help but feel at ease and happy and loved while looking at it, just like he felt then, looking at Eames.

He gives the painting to Eames, heart pounding and hands shaking. This has to be it. This has to be.

The moment Eames glances at the canvas his face breaks open in a hopeful vulnerability Arthur has never seen.

“Eames, this is real,” Arthur says softly. Eames looks up, and Arthur shows him his wedding ring. Eames takes a quick breath and looks back at the painting intensely.

Arthur takes a step closer and begs to anyone who listens that this will work. “Eames, we’ve never had a _Lazy Sunday_ together,” Arthur says, a desperate but hopeful edge to his voice.

At first there is nothing, Arthur holds his breath until:

“ _Oh_ , _darling.”_

Eames looks up from the painting in his hands, his face slowly clearing, and when he meets Arthur’s eyes, Arthur can see relief and recognition reflected in them.

Eames carefully lowers the painting to the ground before grabbing Arthur’s hands in his.

They watch as a familiar golden band materialises around Eames’ ring finger. Arthur hears himself gasp and he knows his dimples showing on his face. He looks back up to Eames who is smiling radiantly at him, bright blue eyes full of love. Arthur tightens his hands around his husband's as his vision starts to go blurry.

The scene changes around them, and they are standing on the bridge in Venice. The water forms an unending but welcoming river below them. They step towards each other, hands still latched together, and Arthur leans forward, kissing Eames softly. Finally.

When they pull back, their cheeks are wet and their smiles are soft.

“Let’s go home, darling,” Eames says, glancing over the bridge’s edge. Arthur pulls him back to kiss him one last time in this wrenched dream.

“Yes,” he whispers against Eames’ lips, “let’s.”

They jump. 

\--

 

Eames proposes to him on his birthday, almost 6 years into their relationship.

“Let’s get married, darling,” he says, young and beautiful, on one knee and smiling brightly.

Arthur pulls him up and into his arms, kisses him hard and passionately, and whispers his answer against his fiancé’s lips.

“Yes. Let’s.” 

They do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have learned so much because of my amazing beta's teaching me the ways of the english language, and all it's quirky rules. 
> 
> Iamanonniemouse, therealpigfarts23 and opalecentgold, thank you for your moral support and beta'ing, this would never existed without you all. 
> 
> For me, this relatively small series (compared to our lovely fandom giants) still felt like a treacerous mountain to climb. But it was worth it, I can see my growth within this series and I'm really happy to have met this community that is so supportive, it makes me a better writer. 
> 
> I'm looking forward to the time where this series seems like a little anthill compared to the other works I'll hopefully make in the future. Until then, I'll need me some ficlets. 
> 
> I hope you all like the series and let me know which ending you liked best, if you read them both!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Asleep (remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10678641) by [pinkys_creature_feature](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkys_creature_feature/pseuds/pinkys_creature_feature)




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